


always in this twilight

by nightbloomings



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Bottom Captain Flint, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Tumblr Prompt, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9347624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: based onthis prompt by flintbysilver on tumblr, for "a bit of Flint in the ninja outfit and Silver stripping him of it after a raid."this is exactly that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm slowly writing a couple longer silverflint things right now but i saw this prompt on friday night and it was still all i could think about while getting groceries on saturday morning, so here this is. there are worse ways to spend a weekend.
> 
> title completely borrowed from cosmic love by florence + the machine, because i spent too long focusing on the smut to think of a decent title ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Silver sits on the bench by the windows in the captain's cabin, looking out through the pitch black at Nevis as she burns in the distance. A single, stout candle on the desk in the centre of the room casts a dull glow over the whitewashed walls, in weak imitation of what Captain Flint and the vanguard have wrought past the shoreline.

He can hear them as they return to the ship, their boots hitting the deck and the uptick in the men's voices as they discuss what plunder, and resistance, the colony offered. But through it all, it's the set of footsteps that cut the loudest above the din that Silver hones in on, as they grow closer and closer to the cabin.

Flint is barely visible in the doorway, the black outfit he wears nearly as dark as the night behind him. He pulls the turban off of his head as he enters the cabin, tucking it under his arm and kicking the door shut behind him. The bolt slides home at the same moment that Silver's false foot hits the floor, and he moves forward. Flint's eyes stay locked with his as he walks over—Silver knows that he's always conscious of it, but he's also the only one whose eyes never fall on the iron leg before they fall on the living, breathing man that wears it.

This isn't the first time that Silver has waited for Flint in this way. It's become part of the ritual of these raids, same as the rousing chant the vanguard sends up when they first assemble on the deck, same as the way Billy knocks his knuckles against the rail before he hauls himself over it.

But this extends beyond superstition.

Silver takes the turban from Flint when he nears, tossing it onto the desk behind them, and then he takes Flint by the belt, tugging to close the distance between them and leaving only just enough space for his fingers as they work the buckle open. Flint relaxes his stance, allows his hips to be jostled with the motions Silver makes as he tugs the warm, worn leather away.

"It's done," Flint whispers, his gaze following Silver's fingers as they move to his holster and scabbard.

Silver looks at Flint until their eyes meet again and then he nods once. Of course it is; Flint wouldn't be back on the ship if it weren't—still, it's another aspect of this ritual, something they confirm to each other each time the vanguard returns.

With the holster and scabbard gone the way of the belt, Silver begins on Flint's tunic. It's secured at the side by three brass buttons which Silver undoes with one quick trip of his fingers, then he leans forward to unwrap the thin, gauzy fabric, his hands moving to Flint's lower back. With his ear against Flint's cheek, he hears his sharp inhale, feels the warmth of his lips against the hollow behind his jaw as Flint nuzzles into him. Silver slides the tunic off of Flint's shoulders without drawing back and Flint brings his arms behind himself to pull it off the rest of the way.

Flint lifts his arms above his head in the next movement, ready when Silver untucks his shirt and pulls it up and away.

Dried blood splatters Flint's face and neck, and it extends down his chest somewhat. Sometimes he makes it back to the ship unmarked, but usually he doesn't. It's not Flint's own blood, though, and that's enough for Silver.

Flint lays a hand across the back of Silver's neck and pulls him in to a gentle kiss, softer and warmer than it has any right to be, given what's transpired to bring them to this point. Silver kisses back until Flint sighs into it, and then he pulls away to reach for the waiting bucket of water.

Silver sets it onto the desk and takes the cloth draped over the side of the bucket, soaking it in the water. It's colder than he'd intended it to be, but Flint had taken longer than usual to return to the ship so it is what it is. If he notices the temperature when Silver presses the damp cloth to him, he doesn’t make it known. Silver runs the cloth in small, deliberate strokes over Flint's chest, watching as it cleans the blood away and leaves only tanned skin and too many freckles to count in its wake. Flint tilts his chin up when Silver brings the cloth to his neck and then he grips Silver's side, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Silver knows it for what it is, recognises when his captain needs something to ground him. He supposes it's a role he's filled for a while, long before their relationship manifested into what it is, though he was blind to it then. It's unmistakable now, the way John serves as a counterpoint to the spiral he knows Flint is on; the same way that the candle behind them wards off the night, he acts a torch against the encroaching darkness that creeps along the outer limits of Flint's soul.

Silver takes Flint by the chin and pulls his face down, the corner of Flint's mouth quirking up. Silver runs the cloth over the wrinkle that appears in his skin and Flint huffs out a soft, short laugh.

When all the blood, gunpowder, and sweat has been cleaned away, Silver drops the cloth back into the bucket and then brings his hands to the waistband of Flint's trousers. Flint's stomach muscles twitch at the glancing contact between his skin and the backs of Silver's fingers as he loosens three of the five buttons. With more room to move now, Silver slides his hands over Flint's hips and around his back, fingers dipping low enough to draw a quiet groan out of Flint. Silver pulls him close and kisses at his neck briefly, savouring the ridge pressing against the top of his thigh.

Silver pulls away and walks back to the window bench, leaving Flint to finish the job of removing his trousers and boots. This isn't the first time they've been on this path together, but it is still new and a pause feels warranted, just in case. It also gives Silver the chance to remove the iron leg as subtly as possible, though he knows Flint is assuredly the one person on the ship who wouldn't gawk as he does it.

With the leg cast off to the side of the room, Silver undresses quickly and sits on the bench as Flint walks towards him. His cock is hard, bobbing slightly with each step, and Silver's own prick twitches at the sight.

He reaches for Flint's hips, spreading his legs and guiding Flint to stand between them. He leans forward and draws Flint into his mouth, swallowing him down with a hum that he knows sounds entirely too needful. But Flint groans too, loudly, and his hands move into Silver's hair. He's left it loose intentionally, knowing how Flint likes to grip into it and knowing how he loves it when Flint does. Silver relaxes his throat enough to take in all of Flint's length, nuzzling his nose into the thatch of hair at the base. He slides his hands over Flint's arse, kneading the supple flesh, pulling him as close as he can get him. He doesn't mean to work Flint to release this way—he wants that later, when they're joined—but he can't deny himself, or Flint, this for a few minutes.

Flint hums from deep in his chest and curls his fingers against Silver's scalp. "The whole bloody time, out there," he says, voice rough, "I wondered whether you would be in here when I came back over the side." He pauses to groan softly as Silver's tongue rolls against the underside of his cock. "And then I didn't see you on the deck, and..." He huffs. "I think Billy had something to ask me, but…"

Silver pulls off Flint's cock, chuckling under his breath before laving an open kiss over the tip still pillowed between his lips. "He'll seek you out, no doubt about that," he says. And then he takes Flint's hips again and turns him around. "But not before morning."

Silver kneads Flint's arse again and then leans forward, parting Flint's cheeks and spitting obscenely onto his hole. He feels a shiver course through Flint, hears him suck in a deep breath, as though he's anticipating what comes next. And then in confirmation, he moans, low and drawn out, when Silver swipes the breadth of his tongue over the delicate skin.

"Jesus," he grits out, one hand reaching blindly backwards until he finds Silver's wrist, his fingers wrapping around it tightly. Silver's not sure what he's done with his other hand, but by the thin, high moan Flint gives, he can guess it's found its way to his cock. It's a sight Silver wants to see, wishing he could be in two places at the same time, but knowing he's drawing out this response is just as good as watching it happen.

Silver licks Flint over a few more times in slow, pressing strokes, then works his tongue into him, beginning with soft flicks and quickly building up to pointed thrusts. Flint is everything in this moment, encompassing all of Silver's senses, from the desperation laced through his voice to the musky, heady scent of him. Silver digs his fingers into the side of Flint's arse, then pulls his hand back to smack the skin a little, and Flint curses.

"Christ, John," he says, and then he grinds back against Silver's face, wordlessly asking for more.

The sound of his given name from Flint's lips sends a hot jolt through Silver's veins and he readily abides, pulling away briefly to suck on his own fingers, then works one into Flint alongside his tongue, quickly making room for a second.

Flint's hips jerk forward and he groans loudly, then the hand that he'd been working himself with flies up to the back of his shorn head and Silver knows then that he's saving himself for Silver's cock. The thought pulls an answering noise out of Silver, fed straight into Flint and against his skin.

"You had better be planning to fuck me proper, after all of this," Flint says, his voice barely more than a growl.

Silver moves his mouth to the flesh of Flint's arse, biting down at the same moment his fingers curl against that raised bundle of nerves inside Flint—every time Silver has made contact with it before, it's drawn a most obscene moan from Flint, and this time is no different.

"The thought had crossed my mind…" Silver drawls, smirking against Flint's skin. He leans back and swipes at his mouth and his chin with the back of his hand. "The oil is on the desk," he says, but Flint is already halfway there by the time he does.

Silver slowly slides further back onto the bench until he can lean against the window frame. He takes himself in hand and pulls off a few indulgent strokes as he watches Flint walk back towards him. Flint's eyes meet Silver's, and they drop quickly to the head of his flushed cock in his fist.

Silver takes the phial of oil from Flint and works the cork out with his teeth. He pours a generous measure into his palm and slicks his hand over his cock, moaning quietly as he passes over the touch-starved tip of it. Flint gets up onto the bench, kneeling over Silver and straddling his thighs. He takes the phial and applies some of the oil to himself as well, before setting it aside. Then Flint leans forward, cupping his dry hand against the back of Silver's head and pulling him into a hungry kiss. Silver hums into it, sliding his hands up Flint's broad thighs and up to his hips.

Flint reaches down with his free hand and wraps his fingers around Silver's cock, adjusting his position until they're lined up just right, and then he lets himself sink down slowly, biting Silver's bottom lip as he does.

"Oh, fuck," Silver says once his lip is free, his voice thin and strained. His cock fills Flint at a torturously slow pace, delicious warmth enveloping him inch by inch. "James, _fuck_ —"

Flint kisses Silver again, growling past his lips until Silver can feel it in his own chest. Finally he's fully sheathed, and Flint rolls his hips, two snaps forward and a slow circle round. There have been times when Flint has ridden him hard, lifting up and spearing himself on Silver's cock over and over, when the adrenaline after a raid hasn't left his bloodstream as easily as it seems to have done this time. This time, Flint doesn't seem to want to break contact between their bodies for anything, with one arm wrapped around the back of Silver's neck, gripping his shoulder, and his other hand buried in Silver's hair. For his part, Silver still marvels somewhat that his captain allows him to fuck him at all; that this ferocious, stoic, resolute man would deign to let someone like Silver grow this close to him is one of the things that Silver understands least in this world, but for which he's increasingly the most grateful.

Flint rocks his hips back and forth, working Silver's cock, the head of his own prick leaving abortive streaks of precum on Silver's stomach. He hunches down to suck at the side of Silver's neck, then uses his teeth along the edge of the fledgling bruise.

"Put your hand on me," he mumbles against Silver's skin, and it still manages to sound like a command despite how ruined his voice has become.

Silver answers with a kiss to Flint's cheek, high up, across the bone, before his lips migrate further to Flint's earlobe. He worries the soft, sensitive flesh between his teeth, drawing a soft moan out of Flint, and then he wraps his fingers around Flint's cock, stroking him tightly until that moan turns anything but soft.

Silver grips Flint's arse with his other hand, following the waves of his hips, spurring him to move faster, feeling the start of his end take hold. He shifts and kisses the top of Flint's shoulder, groaning against his skin as he feels Flint flex and tighten around him. "'m close, James," he says. "Jesus Christ, I—"

The words leave him, dying on his tongue when Flint rolls his hips forward and lifts up at the same time, sinking sharply back down with a guttural noise. It's all it takes to finish Silver off, tearing a deep groan from his chest as he flexes his hips up as best he can with the little leverage his right foot has. Flint bares his teeth and jerks his hips in a staccato rhythm into Silver's hand. It's edged with desperation, with need, and Silver wants more of it. He works Flint's cock faster, rubbing the pad of his thumb around the tip over and over, not letting up until Flint cries out from the excess friction. Silver edges him back with long, tight strokes, then picks up the pace again, not stopping until Flint comes across his chest with a wrecked moan.

They stay together for a few moments longer, suspended in the cloying potency of what this is between them. Flint breaks first, as he always has so far, slowly lifting off of Silver's lap.

Silver braces his hands on the bench, ready to get up, but Flint puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Lie down," he says. The demand is gone from his voice and it sounds almost like a question. An uncertainty of some sort, at least.

Silver glances to his right and reaches for the few pillows that sit there, in the corner of the bench. He rearranges them and shifts closer, lying down on his right side. Flint retrieves a quilt from the suspended pallet cot across the room and he takes the cloth from the bucket from earlier, wringing it out and handing it to Silver to clean himself with.

When he's finished, Flint takes the soiled cloth and drops it onto the floor, and lies down in front of Silver, spreading the quilt over both of them. The window bench is narrow, to be sure, but not so much so that it can't easily accommodate both of them; yet, Flint presses back against Silver as though it can't. Silver feels a tingle at the end of his stump, his left thigh twitching as though to lift his leg and hook it over Flint's. In that moment, the regret that he feels at not being able to follow through yawns deep inside his chest, like he's suddenly become hollow. Then Flint reaches for his arm under the quilt, drawing it around his middle with a sigh that sounds nothing short of contented, and Silver forgets the absence of his leg easily.

 

When Silver wakes, hours later, Flint is gone.

He rises slowly, his body stiff and protesting, and looks around the cabin. There's virtually no remnants of the night before, with the cloth and bucket removed; all that remains is Flint's black raid tunic and turban, piled neatly on the desk.

Silver dresses quickly, conscious of the fact that were any of the men to see him exiting the captain's cabin so early, it would be difficult to explain away. Perhaps he could say that he and the captain stayed up late after the raid, planning their next steps, determining their next port of call, and he slept in the cabin out of convenience.

Of course, by now some of the more astute men—Billy, Joji, De Groot, and likely one or two others—will have figured out what has been developing between their captain and quartermaster. But a well-told, well-placed story rarely hurt matters, either way.

However, Silver manages to slip out of the cabin unnoticed. He moves across the deck on his iron leg, dutifully ignoring the ropes that have been strung overhead for his benefit, and then he turns to look up at the quarterdeck. Flint stands at the starboard railing, a near-silhouette in the young sunrise. At the ceasing of Silver's steps, Flint turns his head and they hold each other's eye for a long moment. And then they share a brief nod, before Flint looks back to the sea.

Silver carries on underdeck, knowing that this will all happen again—there will be another island, another magistrate, another capital sentence requiring an answer. For now, the question that lingers in the back of Silver's consciousness is that of just how many more times Flint can go over the rail, and still come back the same man.

**Author's Note:**

> [here be a tumblr link, matey.](http://nightbloom.tumblr.com)


End file.
